


Play-By-Play

by marauder_in_warblerland



Category: Glee
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-18
Updated: 2015-02-18
Packaged: 2018-03-13 14:23:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3385013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marauder_in_warblerland/pseuds/marauder_in_warblerland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Glee kids are horrible spies OR what goes on inside when Kurt and Blaine leave Rachel's house party.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Play-By-Play

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to foramomentonly for a speedy beta, and to tina-warriorprincess, imthepause, amongsoulsandshadows, and scout451 for some terrific insult suggestions. Folks, you have a gift. : )

“Oh my god! I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Madison squeals. The sound would be endearing if it weren’t _right in Mason’s ear._

“Shhhhhh! I can’t hear them!” He hisses up toward his sister’s voice, aiming for her ear, and ends up with a mouthful of pink feathers and felt. She keeps squealing, but lowers the volume to a high, frenetic hum. He shouldn’t care. It’s not like any of them are good spies. After all, most super spies don’t accessorize in rainbow tulle.

 _Their loss, really,_ he thinks. _The tutus are awesome._ And even if they aren’t the best spies, the tulle isn’t making them any worse.

Five minutes ago, at the end of “Somebody Loves You,” they all successfully pretended not to notice how Mr. Anderson wouldn’t look Mr. Hummel in the eye. And they definitely didn’t see how Mr. Hummel _oh-so-casually_ offered to walk Mr. Anderson to the door. It was an acting tour de force for the entire team . . . except Roderick, who actually hadn’t noticed. In his defense, he was really into his mock-mojito.

Once Misters Hummel and Anderson stepped out the door (after two rounds of “oh, you first”), it took all of two seconds for Kitty and Spencer to realize that there were no actual teachers left at the party.

 In the rush to grab a space near the window, Mason nabbed prime real estate on the lower left side of the front window. From his spot on the floor he can just see under the multi-colored glass, through the window, and into the front yard. Kitty and Madison might be basically sitting on his back, but he can see everything. 

“You want to hear them?” Jane snorts from the other side of the window. “No one can hear them. They’re outside talking and we’re inside being creepy. Unless you’ve developed new powers of surveillance—”

“Or lipreading!” Madison adds.

“— Or lipreading, we’re not going to hear anything.”

Mason rolls his eyes and keeps his responses to himself. They’re right, of course. From inside, they aren’t going to hear anything unless Mr. Hummel and Mr. Anderson decide to pull their own marching bands out of the bushes and put on a show. But that isn’t the point. _It’s about the spy ambiance. Maybe if he focuses on their lips he can make out—_

“Wait! I think I can hear them!” Madison giggles. “It’s coming through!” Her voice goes feather soft as Kurt moves his mouth outside “ _Ohhhh, Mr. Anderson_!” she simpers, _“I love how the moon reflects off of your dreamy eyes, just like that beautiful feather boa. It’s almost like this moment was meant to be._ ” 

“That’s not how he sounds!”

“I know that, Jane.” Madison rolls her eyes. “But we can’t hear what they’re saying, so . . . I’m making my own fun.” 

She elbows Spencer, who tries his damnedest not to laugh. “ _Oh Mr. Hummel!_ ” he jumps in, his voice even higher than Madison’s “ _You are going to make me blush! What will your boyfriend think if he hears about you taking me for walks in the moonlight?_ ”

Jane snorts and covers her mouth with both hands.

“ _Mr. Anderson! How can you speak of boyfriends at a time like this?_ ” Madison gasps, fanning herself like a debutante at high noon. “ _We just sang a song of devotion and I wore my special astronaut hat just for you—_ ”

“Really?” Kitty interrupts with a snort. “Mr. Anderson and Mr. Hummel? If you’re going to make up a bad telenovella about your teachers while they’re standing _right in front of you_ , you can at least use their God-given names.”

Madison blanches and hides under her own arm. “Noooo. I can’t do this if they have to be Blaine and _Kurt_.” She shudders. “That’s too weird.”

“Err. Me neither,” Spencer says, with a grimace. 

“Then maybe you _children_ should back away from the window,” Mercedes calls from the kitchen table. If Mason wasn’t feeling generous, he’d say that she’s sitting far enough away to make a point of not looking, but not so far away that she’d miss anything good. She sends an icy glare toward Artie, who’s peeking out along the far right side of the window. “You could always be mature adults and let my boys have their privacy.” 

“They aren’t just your boys,” Artie scoffs. “I imagined their first chalet. It was magical.”

“And I’m not that disturbed,” Madison shrugs. “How about you?”

She jogs Spencer, who grins. “Nah. I think I’m going to be just fine.” He cups his hands against the glass. “Are they still talking?”

“Shut up!” Mason hisses. As he watches the front yard, Mr. Hummel says something and then— “Mr. Anderson is shaking his head.”

Mercedes cranes her neck toward the window. “Is it his ‘I don’t want to have to disagree with you shake’ or his ‘I’m too embarrassed to look at you shake’?”

Artie looks up. “I think it might be the ‘you’re an idiot but I still kinda like you’ shake.” 

“I don’t know,” Mason squints and narrates. “Now Mr. Hummel’s shaking his head back in a friendly kind of a way and Mr. Anderson’s leaning forward with really serious look on his face and— _oh my god_.” Mason feels his eyes blow as he pulls away from the window. Mr. Hummel was just talking and then Mr. Anderson just—he just— he laid one on him like it was nothing. Except it wasn’t nothing at all and the room has suddenly gone really quiet and— 

“What did I miss?” Roderick appears at the top of the stairs, the damn mojito still in his hand. Everyone by the widow turns, except Kitty, who’s still glaring out the window.

“Blaine Devon Anderson, why are you walking away?” she asks in a tone usually reserved for mothers with lost children. “Blaine? BLAINE. If you don’t turn around right this minute and come back to finish that kiss, I swear to all that is holy that I will call Miss Tina Cohen Chang and they will never find your body.” 

Roderick pulls the drink to his chest like a security blanket. “What the hell happened?”

“None of your business, McMuffin,” Kitty snaps. “Blaine! I’m warning you!”

Mason doesn’t have words for what just happened, but Madison is already trying to stammer it out. “Mr. — Mr. Anderson kissed Mr. Hummel,” she tries, eyes wide. “I mean, _Blaine_ kissed _Kurt_ , like, right on the face.” She holds her open palm up to her nose as though Roderick might need a visual aid.

Jane peeks back out the window and squeals, “Oh my god, he’s coming back in!”

“Of course he is,” Mercedes shrugs. “Where did you think he was going to go?”

“I don’t know! OUT?!”

“Well, he’s not, so unless you want to be the welcome committee—”

Mercedes doesn’t the sentence before the Newest New Directions throw themselves away from the window and back down the stairs, stampeding like a herd of spooked Bison. Jane grabs ahold of Roderick’s arm and drags him down, whispering that she promises to explain it all when they’re _safely downstairs_. Mason goes to follow, but stops midway down. If he crouches, he can hear the girls giggling in the basement and still see just the wheels of Artie’s chair.

When the stampede subsides, Artie rolls away from the window. “Mercedes,” he says. “You surprise me.”

“Hmm?” 

“You lied. You know that boy isn’t coming back in here for five million dollars and Neil Patrick Harris’ phone number.” 

She’s silent for a long breath, and when she starts talking again it’s with an audible smile. “I admit that, in the past, Kurt wouldn’t have come back, but he might have changed—”

“Really.”

“It’s been a long time—”

“Mercedes.” 

“Okay!” she cries, and he can almost picture her throwing up her hands in defeat. “So, I know he’s not actually coming back in, so sue me! The boy deserves a minute to himself without so-called friends like you snooping in on his boy troubles. He’ll walk around the house for a few minutes and come back in when he’s ready. He’ll pretend nothing happened and we’ll pretend he doesn’t look like someone just punched him in the heart. It’ll be just like old times.” 

She sighs and Artie inches forward, until Mason can just see his head above the top stair. “Speaking of boy troubles, what about you?” He jerks his head toward the stairs, and wherever Ms. Berry and Coach Evans have gone. “Are you doing—?” 

“I’m just fine,” she says, slowly, like she’s making sure it’s still true. “Rachel is— she needs something and—” She stops mid-sentence and shakes her head. “It’s good. I told Sam that it was good.” 

“And no one second guesses Mercedes Jones.”

“No they do not.” Mason hears the chair creak and watches the tiny movements in the floor as she pushes herself up. “Not if they know what’s good for them.”

“Aww yeah,” Artie grins. “And what about our young friends who got the full show?”

Mercedes doesn’t answer right away. The floorboards creak as she walks across the kitchen, and it takes Mason all of ten seconds to realize that the steps have stopped right about—

_Well, hello there._

Mason looks up to see Mercedes’ stocking clad feet just inches from his head. Up further he finds her hands on her hips and her head, cocked to one side.

“Luckily,” She smiles, “Kurt’s walk will also give our _young friends_ enough time to stop snooping on us and go back to their party. Right?” 

He nods, perhaps more enthusiastically than necessary, and when she walks down to the basement, he follows like well-trained spaniel. As they descend, Roderick and Spencer’s voices grow louder as they squabble over the next song.

“I swear to god,” Spencer says through clenched teeth, “if you play ’Try A Little Tenderness’ one more time—”

“Why? So you can play ‘Beacon Hill’? Again?” Roderick’s voice doesn’t usually go that high. “Unless I don’t get the point of a party, you might want to choose a song that won’t put _everyone_ to sleep.”

“That song is perfect and you damn well know it!”

Mercedes steps in to break up a potential fight over Damien Jurado, of all things, and Mason holds back. He should probably feel bad for spying or at least for getting caught, but he can’t help feeling like he just got initiated into a strange secret society—a strange, _cool_ secret society that isn’t phased by spontaneous kissing.

When Mr. Hummel finally comes back inside, Ms. Berry and Mr. Evans have finished “Time After Time” and Jane’s utterly demolished “Blank Space.” He comes back in quietly, and no one looks at him twice. He melts back into the rhythm of the party, just like he never left. As Mr. Hummel sidles up to Ms. Berry and nods his head to “Uptown Funk,” Mason watches everyone else. Artie asks Mr. Hummel what song to play next and Coach Evans hands him a drink without checking if he wants it.

He’s suddenly reminded of his sister, and how Madison sometimes knows to buy him peanut butter cups after a crappy day. When he doesn’t want to talk, they just eat candy and act like nothing’s wrong. She’ll watch him when he screws up and make fun of him for days, but when it gets really bad, she knows. She sits him down, hands him a peanut butter cup, and they eat like it’s just another day. That’s family. She looks out for him, in her way, and she knows when to pretend that there’s nothing to see.

“You okay?” Jane sidles up next to him and drops a glass into his hand. “You looked too mopey for someone wearing leather pants.”

“And a pink boa,” Mason shrugs. “I almost have to be perky.”

“I think it’s actually part of the contract,” she smiles, but the question lingers. She watches his face as he glances up to where Mr. Hummel is still swaying to Bruno Mars. His friends have him flanked, and there’s something about seeing Ms. Berry as a human guard tower that makes him really happy.

“Yeah,” he grins. “I’m awesome.” Jane rolls her eyes. Still, she holds out her hand and, with a toss of his boa, he lets her pull him back onto the dance floor.


End file.
